The Wistful Cipher
The fog in the valley of the River Tamar was not a weather event so much as a living thing, a gray, wet shroud that swallowed the hills whole and left only the rhythmic clatter of the locomotive to announce that the world still existed. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the corner of the carriage, his posture rigid, his hands resting on the polished leather of his briefcase. He was a man who had spent...
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